Yes, Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus

I live for Christmas. I love all of it – the music, the decorations, the weather (I miss snow with every fiber of my being), and seeing family. I think I’m like the Whos down in Who-Ville who would enjoy celebrating Christmas even if there wasn’t a single gift to open. This year, after an admittedly tough spring and summer, I look forward to spending Christmas with those I love even more than usual.

C is definitely infected with the same Christmas bug. He gleefully sings Christmas carols and plans out gifts he wants to give people (I came home the other night to the treat of three treasures from his room wrapped up for me). C absolutely understands that giving is as every bit as good as receiving, and he cheerfully donates toys he no longer uses and wonders who will get them.

It was only a couple of years ago that C began to understand presents, stockings, and Santa Claus. He fully believes in Santa, which I suspect will come to an untimely and painful end when some other kid fills C in far before he’s ready to hear it. Yet I’m ready for that, armed with my talk about the spirit of Santa Claus and having faith in things you just can’t see. After all, at 40 years old, I’m still a believer myself.

This year, there’s going to be something very special under the Christmas tree just for C, and most definitely from Santa. Imagine my surprise yesterday when Husband discovered an envelope on the front walkway with a simple handwritten note inside. “Dear Darcy and Husband,” it said, “it looks like I’m going to be pretty busy this year, so please use this card and make sure to get ‘you know who’ something special. With love, Santa Claus.” Enclosed? A Target gift card for $150. No joke, and absolutely NO idea who left it.

So Merry Christmas C, and much love and thanks to C’s unknown secret Santa. You’ve kept the spirit of Christmas alive, and someday, when C begins to question Santa’s very existence, I can’t wait to share with him this story.

Wow! That is pretty cool! We have gotten so lax about the holidays, I sort of feel bad for the boys. Same with birthdays. Poor little guys. Maybe having they’re own personal trainer cheers them up a bit. (I know – ridiculous, isn’t it?)